Wooden Nickels
by Ginger Glinda the Tangerine
Summary: Benny muses over his friendship with the bohos. Songfic to the Eels song of the same name. Rated for slight language.


_Went down by the old courthouse  
__Stumbling through the streets  
__Had to get out of the house  
Had to use my feet_

Benny was walking. He wasn't walking anywhere in particular, he was just walking. He needed to be somewhere that wasn't his huge, oppressive apartment, that wasn't policed by the loving gaze of his wife. Today was the first anniversary of their moving in together, and six months since their wedding. Benny's memories of what should rightly be happy events were marred by his memories of his friends – or the people that had been his friends; he didn't know if they still considered themselves close to him. A year ago, almost to the minute, he had been sitting in the loft with Mark, Collins, Roger, April and Maureen, and Collins had just opened the first bottle of Stoli.

"To Benny," Collins grinned, holding up the bottle.

"Don't we get glasses first, man?" laughed Roger, who had clearly been dying for a drink ever since Collins, the ever-reliable supplier of vodka, had first walked in.

"Hey, man, you can drink from the bottle like everyone else," Collins teased, pouring himself a glass. No-one commented, but everyone silently thanked Collins for being so considerate. "You don't have any diseases, do you?"

Roger pretended to think. "I dunno, man. I think I might have some kind of… what do they call it…"

"They call it idiot," April filled in, kissing him.

Benny smiled. He kind of liked April; she reminded him of Alison, or how Alison might have been if she'd grown up on the wrong side of town and fended for herself since she was eleven.

Mark took a sip of alcohol and passed the bottle to Benny. "Thanks, man," Benny grinned, and took a decent amount before handing the bottle to April. "I'll miss you guys, I really will."

"Miss us?" Mark looked confused. "You'll still come hang out with us, right? It's not like you're moving to, I don't know, Kentucky or something."

"Well…" Benny scratched the back of his head. "Alison… I mean, she's kinda… well, I mean her father – they don't exactly approve…"

"Approve?" Maureen giggled. "How could anyone not _approve_ of us? We're the best damn friends you'll ever have!"

"I'll drink to that," Collins crowed, and did.

Benny felt distinctly uncomfortable. He could feel Roger's eyes on him, piercing, and he was trying desperately to avoid Mark's disappointed stare. "Well, guys, I'll still come say hi. Just might not be as often."

He looked around for the bottle of Stoli, and, despairing, saw it was on the other side of the room. He got up and motioned towards the bathroom.

Alone and surrounded by cold, damp tiles, Benny took a moment to get his bearings. He hadn't drunk vodka in a while; he'd forgotten how much it affected him. What were his friends expecting? That he would stay the same old Benny? That he wouldn't grow? That he hadn't already grown? He was getting married in a few months, for Christ's sake, and they were all acting like it was just a fling. He and Alison had planned meticulously the months up to the wedding day; nothing was out of place except Benny's unruly gang of anarchists. He loved them – of course he loved them! But he'd outgrown them.

Benny rinsed his face and headed back out into the main room. He was cornered by Maureen as he made his way back towards the group.

_And you may not think much of me now  
But I think so damn much of you_

"Hey," she said softly.

"H…hi," Benny replied, confused.

"Benny. I want to talk to you." Her voice was low, and serious; Benny didn't think he'd ever heard her talk like this before.

"Fire away," he said.

"This whole deal," sighed Maureen. "Moving in with Alison and getting married – Christ, Benny, you're so young, what the hell are you doing getting married – and the gig with her daddy, it's all pretty comfortable, right?"

"I've never run from comfort," Benny tried to joke.

"Wooden nickels," Maureen said.

"You what now?"

"Don't take any wooden nickels when you sell your soul. Something my ex used to say."

"I don't understand," Benny replied. Had he drunk more vodka than he'd realised? Was it stronger than normal? Or was Maureen actually saying these things?

"I love you, Benjamin Coffin the Third," Maureen said softly, urgently, grabbing the front of his shirt. "We all love you. So don't you fucking dare sell yourself short when you sell out, okay?"

"I'm not gonna sell out," Benny promised.

_A devil of a time awaits you__  
When the party's over  
You're on your own_

…

_Trash truck coming up the road__  
Picking up the trash  
Riding to a better place  
Hoping we don't crash_

A year later, Benny sat on the curb and watched the traffic spilling past him, leaving nothing behind but the flutter of litter onto the sidewalk. After his exchange with Maureen, he remembered, the party had gone well; no-one had gotten too blind drunk, and he had crashed on the couch quite happily at around five (his room had been transformed into a store room for all the various junk the friends had accumulated, and it was surprising how quickly he had discovered he could no longer find his bed). The next day, he had transferred the last of his belongings across town to the apartment Alison's father had given them, and he started work for Mr. Grey the day following. The work was fine; it paid well, and it was interesting enough, so Benny didn't complain. He and Alison fit well together, and hardly ever fought.

The wedding was a disaster. Roger, April, and Maureen got loudly drunk, Collins got stoned, Mark filmed all their antics with a sly smile on his face, and Benny shrank further and further into his seat as the evening progressed. Several times, Alison walked past him and hissed, "I told you not to invite them!"

Eventually, at about the point when April and Maureen started dancing on the tables, Benny got up, forced a smile onto his face and asked his oldest, dearest friends to leave his wedding reception.

_Thinking how things have turned out  
I never would have guessed it this way_

Collins' face fell. "Man… dude, we haven't seen you for three fucking months! I flew from fucking MIT to see you, man."

Maureen jumped off the table and demanded in a voice far too loud, even for the noise-filled hall, what was going on.

"Son of a bitch wants us to leave," April spat.

"I don't have a problem with that," said Roger, glaring at Benny. The group began to walk away, Mark walking backwards and pointing his camera at Benny. He was narrating something, but over the noise Benny couldn't quite tell what it was.

_Don't take any wooden nickels  
When you sell your soul  
A devil of a time awaits you  
When the party's over  
You're on your own_

…

Benny sighed and kicked a rolled-up ball of paper. There was no excuse for his behaviour, in any circle. He didn't understand his self of six months ago, that callous version of him that had willingly let his best friends walk away from his wedding. Sure, they'd been loud, and they'd been drunk, but they were always either one, the other, or a combination of the two. It was who they were. Benny had chosen his wife's snipped, unsympathetic opinion of people he'd known for years over his true feelings. And it had taken him six months to realise his mistake.

He needed to make it up to them, somehow. And though there was no way of making it up to poor April, he could honour her memory by making her boyfriend's life better, at least.

_You may not think much of me now  
But I think so damn much of you_

They had been through so much, and they were still so strong. Collins was getting on with his life, teaching, and while Mark and Roger were still deadbeats, they were still alive – which was sometimes more than Benny could say for himself.

"Don't take any wooden nickels," Benny mumbled under his breath. Maureen had warned him about his new, supposedly better, life, but he hadn't understood what she meant until now.

Benny's father in law had told him to evict the tent city next to Mark and Roger's apartment. He had a week to do it, but he figured if he did it that night, he could go down to Mark and Roger's and, as a gesture of goodwill, tell them about his plans to erect a studio in the city's place. He was sure they'd be at least a little appreciative. And there was something Mr Grey had mentioned about a protest, too. Benny knew Maureen and Mark were involved; he hoped it went over smoothly.

Benny knew there was a distinct possibility that Mark and Roger would spit in his face and tell him to get out. He was prepared for that; after all, he hadn't done much better to them at his wedding. He could handle that.

Maureen's words spun round and round Benny's head as he walked back to his apartment, as he picked up the phone, as he dialled the loft to tell them their rent was overdue.

_A devil of a time awaits you  
Now the party's over_

_I'm on my own_


End file.
